These Are All Warnings Which You Must Forget
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
Summary: (spoilers for Fragile Balance, JD) Young Jack has a bone to pick, and nothing left to loose.


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Title: _These Are All Warnings (Which You Must Forget) 1/_1

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Author: Meredith Bronwen Mallory

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Feedback: Onlist or to mallorys-girlcinci.rr.com

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Author **Website**: PG-13

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Pairing: Jack/Daniel

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Category: Slash

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Date: June 3rd, 2004

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Status: Complete

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Series: None

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Season/Spoilers: Through Season Fragile Balance.

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Archive: Alpha Gate. Area 52. Jackdaniels. Anyone else please ask.

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Synopsis: Young Jack has a bone to pick-- and nothing left to loose.

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AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm kind of worried about this piece-- I started it back in November, when it was an itty bitty baby of a fic (two pages) and hit a dead end. Imagine my surprise when, six months later, it comes back to bite me in the butt, absolutely refusing to let go. I'm terribly afraid this sucks, but I have to send it out before I get frustrated and throw it away. Forgive me. ; This is my spin on 'Fragile Balance', which was a really good episode despite the fact it tied things up too neatly at the end. Thank you for taking the time to read this-- I do hope you enjoy it. If I could trouble you a bit more to send me feedback, I would be forever obliged.

Pretty please?

Meredith ;

DATE BEGUN: November 2nd, 2003

DATE FINISHED: June 3rd, 2004

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These Are All Warnings (Which You Must Forget) 1/1

by Meredith Bronwen Mallory

mallorys-girlcinci.rr.com

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At school, they want me to talk about my problems.

What a joke. It's like the moment I walked in the door, they zeroed in on me. A pity case, a troublemaker, a real head-job for the under-qualified guidance counselor to peel. I mean, she doesn't have anything else to do, save listening to Seniors whine about college applications. I'm alone, and they know it. I bet they have some type of list-- "Look for These Qualities In Potential School Bombers". I've blown up plenty of things in my time; Denver High and it's grimy halls, it's stained cafeteria and it's cracked-wood gym are of no consequence to me. 'Sides-- Daniel would say that violence isn't the answer. He's probably saying that to you right now, while you'd rather just shoot the leader of Whatever-Tribe, 'cause his gaze is lingering a little overlong on the form of your archaeologist.

You are such an asshole. And so am I.

They know I'm alone, and they know I'm different.

I'll always be alone, because of you.

Thing is, I'm not nearly as much trouble as I was (or you were) the first time around. I'm generally not late to class, I turn in my homework. Yeah, I mouth off, but I got so much I can't say I guess I'm just making up for it by spiting like a rabid cat. Hair raised, in from the alley and smelling like shit. That's me. John O'Neill, the weird, somber young man with a serious attitude problem. Defender of skinny, geeky boys who drop their books in the hallway.

Daniel, I keep hoping as I shove away the faceless bully and help the kid off the ground... I keep hoping it'll be you. I'm hungry for those blue eyes behind lopsided glasses. That shade, you know. Can't match it.

Never is, though. Just pat 'em on the back and send them on their way. Careful there, kid. Ha! They look at me like I have two heads.

YOU, you see those eyes every day. The whole package-- I bet you just sit there next to him and soak it up. I bet you're still stopping by his office every morning to bring him coffee and chat. Trailing behind him like a loosened shadow; those grunts who buy your act towards Carter are blind or something. He's putting his hand on your shoulder, he's smiling at you, and you love it. I know, because I loved it; you'll never do anything about it because you're chicken shit and so was I.

Remember all those promises we made? Like, God-- if Daniel comes back, if you just gimme one more chance, I'll do it up right, I promise. Come on, I'll come clean. I'll treat him like he deserves, be gentle like I want to. I'll stop pushing him away, cause I know what I feel ain't his fault.

We got him back, damn it! Or, YOU did, because-- after all-- what am I but some left over genetic mashed potatoes, scraped off into the garbage can? I can smell the stink.

You don't keep promises very well. Obviously.

Daniel, I'm sorry. Daniel, I love you and I should have told you as soon as I saw that familiar shine coming back into your gaze. I should have pulled Arom-- who you were just curled away behind-- into my arms and hugged the hell out of him. Hell, eons ago I should have just swept you outa the gateroom and back to my house for a serious talk. Daniel, this is hell. No one to talk to, and all these damn words. You wouldn't believe it. Is this how you feel? I'm writing, I write all the time because I see letters in my head and they make words and words make a story I can't tell anyone else.

Closeted Air Force Colonel Cloned-- film at eleven.

YOU. I really hate you. I used to frigg'n BE you. We have some serious self-loathing issues here. I mean, we had issues with the robot-us too, remember? I wouldn't have been so mean to him, now that I know what it's like to be on the other side of the glass, hands pressed, wanting in so badly.

At least he had Daniel.

That's what I wake up thinking sometimes... why not Daniel too? I mean, Loki-- cut this old colonel some slack. I've been ridden hard and put away wet. Danny and I, we're a pair, we come as a set. The Geek and the Soldier. Like some type of late night sitcom. Canned laughter, cluelessness and the whole shee-bang.

At school, the nice, washed-out guidance counselor wants me to talk about my problems.

Okay, alright--

My problem is you.

#(#)#

Each day began with a distinctive, low panic. It crawled under his dreamless sleep, hunched over him in bed like a lover. He would wake to feel his fingers and his toes, the form of his legs, like restless tree branches. His hands were too small, and often he thought 'I should shave' before realizing it would not be necessary for quite some time.

He would stand in front of the mirror

(mirror, on the wall. Ha! Not the fairest. Not fair at all.)

and make faces at his monkey image, thinking back on every story he could remember-- on the things, the bargains and the savageries humans were said to have committed for youth. He had been a simple man, and now he was a simple boy. There was no magic in his change, no romance; it hadn't occurred to him that there ought to be, until he recalled Daniel's mythology. Snatches of stories that clung to him after briefings, paid heed only because they were told in Daniel's voice.

Daniel, who's life was like some upside down and backwards fairy tale-- always too little, a little too late.

Night in the Iraqi desert. Feet propped up on the gray jeep dashboard; two soldiers clinking their canteens together because the sand and the sun's hot kiss made water taste heady, like wine.

"Shoulda, woulda, coulda, my friend."

Jack O'Neill-- exiled from his body and flickering back into the barely remembered child-vagabond called John-- ate soggy fruit loops sitting crouched on balcony of his government financed apartment, smoking stolen, cheap cigarettes. The tendrils of his breath made dragon shapes in the just-turning-autumn air.

"Hey." He grunted "good morning" to the breedless birds nesting in the wreckage of what had once been the next-door neighbor's patio furniture. Aimlessly, he chucked some red bits of cereal in their general direction; they fluttered briefly and alighted once more, eying him with annoyance.

Glancing through the glass doors, John's eyes settled on the plain back backpack propped up against the desk.

No more P90's, no more MREs for you, young man. Strictly regulated to mechanical pencils now. Oh, fearsome warrior.

Dully, he wondered if today he would bother to go to school.

#(#)#

I know how this story goes. I'm supposed to forfeit, hands off, 'cause I'm just a Xerox-- twenty five cents, a click and a bar of light. Ta-da! From the Asgard straight into your bedroom, one temporary Jack clone, purpose served and then kaput. I go back to high school and make sure I don't pull any of the shit I did the first time through; I grow as my other life fades into the background and I wake up one morning fully consumed with concerns of homework, pimples and video games. I'm supposed to acculturate (a Daniel word, but it works) into the weird, bubbling mass of pop culture and cynicism, while the old man charges through the 'gate, mouthing off and touching Daniel when he thinks no one is looking.

Flirting with Carter, flippant, uncaring, even as your hands reach for Daniel-- you pat his hair, gently knuckle his upper arm. Who do you think you're kidding? You can lie to yourself but you can't lie to me, 'cause I know. I know-- there's your breach of security-- and no matter how many second chances you get, you just ain't gonna get the picture.

One day it's just gonna be-- bang. No Nox magic, no brain twister, no snake-coffins or glowy light shows. Just Daniel, dead.

Or worse, gone; see you later, Jack, it's been great, and some smiling, sweet little maiden on his arm. He'll adore her, blue eyes focused; he'll kiss her small hands and never come over for beer and hockey on Friday nights.

God, it's always too late, you know? A minute or two off, there goes your team, your son, your best friend charging through radiation to save people who don't even give a damn. And of course, I only realize I can't live like this any more when I no longer have the option. Too bad, so sad.

Carter said that there were definite plus sides to this deal, things to enjoy. My knees don't hurt, but I spend every day waiting for that ache, that dull, arthritic pain to come crawling up into my back. I stretch gingerly for knees that have no wear and tear, I step wide for legs that just don't have that length. Everything is silence now, turning my head at the slightest movement or sound, waiting for something that will not come.

You know that feeling-- we know that feeling. A year of walking past an empty office, of turning around, expecting...

Who knew I'd have to do this shit again so soon?

#(#)#

Sometimes, he wondered if there wasn't something wrong with his memory, with his mind. Another Asgard screw up; any soldier knew mistakes rarely traveled alone. Maybe a fifteen year old brain just wasn't mean to store all the shit he had kicking around. Memory assailed him at the oddest moments, time shifting uncomfortably, along with every sense. Carter once remarked that human beings never really forgot anything-- which was why the Tokra device worked so well. Hell, maybe Loki had riffled through his brain like a clumsy SF with a filing cabinet, and things were only just now settling back into place.

The Denver High school Cafeteria smelled like old food, stale homework and just a trace of ambitious sweat. If Jack were to close his eyes, he'd be back in Chicago's PS-112, a world of dull yellow lights, peeling paint and chipped wood tables. The girls would wear tight sweaters or summery half-smocks, or skirts that dared a centimeter or two above policy. In the corner, old Ms. Mariano would have her eyes narrowed behind black horn rims, watching in a manner intended to be cat-like, but which only came off as vaguely insectile. In his sturdy shoes and dockers-- you never wore jeans to school in those days-- Jack would strut towards the far back and the 'bad boys' table', pausing to flip Alicia Flemming's long ebony braid as he passed by.

"Move it or loose it, O'Neill," a woman's voice-- a young girl's. They all sounded so god damn young, his own voice a squeaky, tin-can Mickey Mouse, echoing in his head. Opening his eyes

(stupid-- never let your guard down, never close your eyes-- one of these days you're gonna get stuck back there and if you think you got trouble now...)

Jack stared, unimpressed, into the face of Blythe Thompson. She was ahead taller than he was (disconcerting in and of itself); pretty, but with so many sharp angles that even with her long, honeyed brown hair, she gave the over all impression of being like a long, rather unwieldy blade.

"I'd like to see you try, Thompson," he muttered automatically, never the less stepping out of the aisle to let her pass. A few heads nearby turned, quickly loosing interest. Jack had been in one fight during his sixth month career at Denver High; an incident which bordered on suspension, but no one had bothered him after that.

Blythe eyed him speculatively, flannel shirt drooping over one shoulder. "I could still get in a good shot or two," she muttered, flicker of grudging respect in her eyes.

"How about a blow to the head?" Jack snorted, balancing his tray, "Amnesia can't be worse than this." No response-- not that he expected one. They made their way towards the row of almost vacant tables at the far end of the room; walking too closely not to be aquatinted, and too far apart to be friends.

Sliding into a chair, Jack dropped his tray with semi-careless clatter and eyed the paper box of crimpy, school-style fries. Glancing up, he surveyed the other three people at the table, and the wide berth the rest of the school population gave them.

"Eat something, Emma," Blythe was saying, "that's sort of what lunch is for."

"This is due next period," Emma murmured, gesturing with one dusty-toned hand towards the text book and papers spread out around her. Briefly, she lifted her head-- pushing her dark, chin-length hair back behind her ear. "For Mr. Reilly's class," she addressed Jack, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "I don't suppose you have yours done so I can check my answers?"

"It was a stupid assignment," Jack twirled a fry, smearing ketchup across the tray, "I didn't bother."

"Who cares about 'Hamlet' anyway?" Blythe tore her grilled-cheese sandwich in two, waving the larger half in front of Emma's hazel eyes, "Eat something."

"Geeks," Jack rolled his shoulders, "what can you do?"

A chair down, Stuart piped in, "Hamlet is really just 'The Lion King' anyway."

"Wouldn't that be, 'The Lion King' is just 'Hamlet', seeing as Hamlet came---" Emma paused, looking first at Stuart's blank, freckled boy-next-door face, and then at Jack. "Oh never mind." She went back to scribbling incessantly in her tight, glittery script, missing Blythe's indulgent smile as she bent back over her work.

"I'll dump milk on your papers," the taller girl threatened, and Jack tuned than all out, slouching and tilting his head back to the ceiling. Whole days passed like this, a bizarre, neo-realist parody of his life; he'd quickly lost whatever burst of enthusiasm that had led him to try his life over again, and in the end he supposed he really didn't have any other choice. What did one do with the fifteen year old, pip-squeak extra?

(What is there for you to do but slog through classes, learning an updated, pop version of history, science, mathematics? You can kick and scream and fight all you want, but the Air Force has set you up with a pretty nice deal, considering, and they certainly aren't gonna put themselves out anymore. Just look at that horizon, that 'second chance' Carter was blathering about-- just like the Iraqi desert, endless, hopeless, no feature save illusions shivering wildly in the heat. For a genius, Carter can be pretty dumb when she wants to be.)

"What happened to you?" the reach of Emma's soprano brought Jack back into his claustrophobic body-- he felt rather than saw the mass of textbooks hit the table next to him.

"Same old," Luke Yoshimo said resignedly, taking the chair next to Jack as if it was his due. His glasses were crooked, hanging precariously on his small nose, and there was a smear of blood by the corner of his mouth.

"I thought I told them to stop giving you shit," Jack frowned-- an expression that only deepened when Yoshimo smiled at him. In that unguarded, friendly expression, Jack could see Yoshimo being thrown against a locker-- remembered Daniel being bullied, first by SFs who wouldn't respect him, and then...

("I have to go now, Jack."

A pause, anti--breath, because some sacred law has been violated, except these past few months Jack has been violating them all. "Shut up, Daniel I'm not interested I don't want to hear it, Daniel".

Daniel, where are you going?

"I don't know." And goddamn it, he's all white light and azure shade, he's smiling, but why shouldn't he? He ought to be glad to get away from you.)

"Please don't go to anymore trouble for me, John," he said quietly, "the Army is out in the main hall advertising their college tuition thing-- the guys were just trying to show off."

"Tell me an adult said something," Emma insisted, handing the boy a half-crumpled napkin.

"They didn't," Stuart and Blythe chorused morbidly, met with Jack resigned and confirming nod.

"Maybe I'll go join up," Jack muttered, words absolutely acidic and directed towards his own skin. At the questioning glances, he tossed down the ruin of his fry, "I'm sick of this."

"We're only half way through the year," Stuart said, biting an already well-battered lip.

Jack didn't even glance up, "That's not what I meant." It took only a moment for them to realize he wasn't going to say anything more; he spent the rest of lunch tearing into an orange he actually ate little of and ignoring Emma's occasional concerned glance.

The bell rang and Jack stretched, as bored as the monotone sound issuing from the speakers. Clapping Yoshimo gently on the back, he rose with a lack of effort that still surprised him, only to be caught be Emma's hand on his sleeve. With her text books clasped tight against her chest and her gray, homemade dress hanging off her body, she looked so painfully young that Jack felt as though he'd fallen another meter, another mile down the endless rabbit hole. He didn't know what he was doing here, amongst a generation more than thirty years removed from his own, sitting with four kids so excommunicated from their peers that they weren't even welcome with the outcasts, eating lunch and trying to live a life he'd already done once. Deja-frick'n-vu.

"Walk to class with me," she said quietly, "after all, you're going my way."

"You realize this means we're going steady?" he teased, regretting it when one of Blythe's heavy, industrial boots came down on his foot. He shot her a dirty look.

"Who the hell talks like that?" Blythe asked rhetorically, "'Going steady'? What planet are you from?"

"This one, if you can but dig it," Jack said nastily, "From one overprotective alpha male to another, Thompson-- lay off. I'm not a threat." Now they were drawing eyes; very interested, critical eyes, but Blythe tossed her hair and flipped everyone in the general vicinity the bird. "Nice going, O'Neill," the anger faded from her tone as soon as she caught the confusion in Emma's eyes, "tomorrow we'll have the whole damn side of the room to ourselves." For just a moment, Jack was comforted by the sameness hanging around himself and the tall, lanky brunette; laying in wait, hiding in plain sight, scared shitless and not breaking a sweat. But Blythe's faint blush as she turned away seemed to highlight her youth, and the moment was gone.

"Come on," Emma said, steering him through the crowd by the elbow. "Just, let's--" her eyes followed Blythe's departure, before she shook her head, "come on."

#(#)#

Once, in the heated, other-world of Iraq, he'd stood flanked by the merciless, sunbaked houses in a small desert village and watched a young girl die. She was small and dark, clutching at her mother's blue hijab as the crowd surged forward, possessed, ravaged and dehumanized by the need for food. Charlie would have been four or five then, sitting safe at home in his booster chair, smearing jelly across his plate; the midwestern American kitchen would be bright and lysol-clean, echoing Charlie's giggles as Sara tried to wipe the stickiness from between his little fingers. The girl's fingers were tiny as well, tightening in fear as she was jostled by bodies and sweat and hunger, feet struggling to keep up with her mother's long stride. It had happened so fast-- a shot, echoing mercilessly until the sound of panic overwhelmed it. Her dark eyes pierced his memory, wide and blind to the next moments as she fell down, down, down and god, she couldn't have been more than seven. He'd heard the mother scream, cry out; too late, years later, and it was also Sara's wail of despair. It crossed language and time, it vibrated in his sternum-- it was the sound of shattering glass and Daniel hitting the ground, not carrying, hurrying his death.

Sara wrote him letters, sent their smooth corners and faint home-smells to where he bunked in the middle of nowhere. Birthdays, little anecdotes, pictures of his son-- stories with training wheels, well restrained. What was he supposed to say? People were dying and it was so hot during the day, until night came and you forgot what heat was all together. He wrote 'I hope you are well' and 'tell Charlie I love him' in tight, firm script, then laid back on his bunk and tried very hard to think of nothing at all. The sky was bright and blue around him, orders buzzing static in his ears-- from the cockpit, the world was smooth and full of yellowed sand; it didn't look like there was anything wrong.

He wrote to Sara about the weather.

It had been years since he'd had flashback to Iraq, but he was having now, in a hallway full of teenagers just trying to grab books and get to class before the bell. It was the crowd and the smell-- unconcerned shoving, current against current, calm insanity with the tang of sweat from close quarters. Without meaning to, he tightened his grip on Emma's slim arm, thinking 'stupid, stupid' and trying very hard not to be disconcerted by his own height. Reality swelled dangerously; he loosened his fingers only after Emma flinched in pain, but she didn't say anything. Finally, they came into the yellowing lights of Mr. Reilly's College-Prep English, shuffling towards the back.

"Look," Emma said, before biting her lip. She looked away as she took the seat next to Jack, tapping her fingers. "I know we don't have much in common-- aside from the fact pretty much everyone wants nothing to do with us. Maybe it's not my place..."

Jack blinked, "But...?"

"I moved here right before you did," she said, suddenly tilting her face towards his. "From India. Bombay, actually." He nodded slowly, unable to stop the narrowing of his eyes. "I grew up there; it's beautiful." Her hands fisted on the edge of the desk, "I hate it here."

Jack snorted, aware of how rude the sound was as it left him. "Join the club."

"I know the counselor is giving you grief, but--" Her words rang apart as the bell trilled and the glaring, digital letters clicked over to 12:00. Quickly, she grabbed his notebook off the desk, scribbling and shoving it back at him, her eyes fully on the blackboard as class began. Jack slouched in his seat, warily watching Mr. Reilly pace up and down the rows, before he moved his hand away from the otherwise clean page.

Blue pen, inked and a little sparkly-- feminine loops, the words off center and off angle. 'If someone took something from you, maybe you should take it back.'

He doodled his usual aircraft and fighter planes throughout the rest of the bell, skittering up, down and across the page, respectfully circling the hasty, childish advice.

Halfway through class, he caught Emma's eye-- but he had only little more success in reading her gaze than she did reading his.

#(#)#

Hi. My name is John O'Neill-- I'm fifteen years old and I go to school in an little hole called Denver High. I'm maladjusted but, according to the school shrink, I can be saved. Never mind the fact I know how to operate just about any plane you shove in front of me and I keep having flashbacks to a war I'm too young to have fought in. Never mind that...

Screw this.

I don't want your pity, your military stipend or this shoddy, second rate life. I've been to Iraq, I've closed over even the memory of speech while the guards rubbed sand or worse into my open wounds. I've shaken with addiction, I've held my son's limp, lifeless shoulders, shaking him, begging him to wake up even though the back of his head is a mass of red, bleeding, bleeding. I've held a gun to my own head, thinking about that sweet little bullet, about the dull sound the shot will make as it pieces my brain and the house lights go down, snap, like that. It's been uphill all the way, old man, and you know it. I'm as tired as you and I'm as lonely as you and I don't want to do this again. Just give me a fuck'n break here.

I know you, O'Neill. I know you better than I know this skinny little body with it's too-small hands and unmarred skin. I know you, you lily livered bastard; the tip of my tongue holds every word you ain't never gonna say. You're afraid, but I'm not anymore-- I'm a crazy kamikaze with nothing to loose. The most dangerous soldier is the one with no bets to hedge and no reason to flinch if the bullet comes too close. I know you'll never change. You'll never say anything, you'll go right on pushing and wanting, drawing Daniel close and then shoving him away when it gets to be too sweet, too warm, when you start to feel like grabbing hold with both hands and taking everything you can get.

#(#)#

Lights on.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

A roll of eyes. "It was dark when I came in."

Shuffle papers, smooth skirt. "You could have turned the light on."

"Secretary told me not to touch anything." Almost mocking.

Pause. "Alright, John-- let's talk."

"I don't talk-- you yammer at me, I pretend to listen."

A frown of red, sharp lips. "Mr. O'Neill, your attitude is not helping things."

"Can I go?" More slouching in the seat, as if the legs are too short rather than too long. He is the opposite of coltish. "I'm missing Math. Even geometry is better than this."

"No." A sigh, "We're trying to help you, John. As an emancipated minor, you have a lot of responsibility on your shoulders."

Belligerent silence.

"We are trying to help. You're a very troubled young man."

A wave of hands. "Ding, ding, ding! Give that lady a prize!" Leaning forward, "What ever gave me away?"

"Your sarcasm is inappropriate."

Heavy breath in, and then out. "Yadda."

"Are you upset with your move to Denver?" An attempt at kindness, "Would you like to go back where you came from?"

Bitter laughter, too deep, too strange for a boy. "From your lips to God's ears, lady. From you lips to God's ears."

#(#)#

The smell of cigarettes always made Jack vaguely hungry-- a sort of hollowed, echoing feeling that had nothing to do with food. It was the menthol, he knew, that made the smoke drifting past his nostrils smell like a young boy's wild autumn; but there was always that moment before conscious thought, when his mind murmured 'if only' and did not know what it was reaching towards. Sense memory, Daniel called it-- images and feeling that strike a common chord, no matter what language or race, or planet. When he was a young boy on his grandparents' Minnesota farm, his Gran would give him a sip of beer and a drag off her cigarette every night before she tucked him, giggling and squirming, under the heavy, moth-bitten quilts. Little bits of cheese and crackers too, he remembers-- he'd sit on the rail of her porch, kicking his legs in the stagnant summer time, watching the house lights flood out into the lawn and disappear.

He'd thought he knew that pang, that he could anticipate it. On the shuttering, rain-slicked metro ride into Colorado Spring, he'd felt his stomach clench and unclench, trying to digest guilt he didn't have.

(If someone took something from you....)

Now, on the damp street outside Daniel's house, Jack stood with his hands in his pocket and felt in ways he hadn't really known he could.

Daniel, drowsy and bored by a hockey game, falling asleep on the couch, head tilting accidentally to rest on Jack's shoulder. The colonel would sit very still then, turning just fractionally to inhale the scent of books and sandalwood and knowledge that was his best friend. His own hand on Daniel's, those thin, scholar's fingers trapped like a small, warm animal as they reached for the chevrons; blue eyes and amused gazes masked with vague annoyance-- Daniel, in the court of King unfortunately bearing the name Fraku, glaring at Jack and trying desperately not to laugh. Sense memory. We have barely begun to understand the human mind, Fraiser said-- and boy does he remember that, the Language of the Ancients snaking painfully into his tongue-- like a maze you're trapped in, a stranger to yourself. If he thought about it too long, these days, Jack would feel a little claustrophobic; he'd wish he could be distilled, poured back into the Old Man's body like bitter, finely aged wine.

(No such luck. Fate's a bitch, and-- lemme tell you, Johnny-- she don't play fair.)

Taking a deep breath, Jack eyed his uncomfortable, ill-fitting reflection in the window of a parked car, running a hand through his hair. He rubbed self-consciously at a small pimple, before forcing his hand away and his gaze towards the house just down the small, slightly overgrown path. One teen-sized sneaker in front of the other.

(You're a kamikaze, in a plane swirling and heating downwards-- through your helmet you see the looming battleship and there is that moment, that terrible moment, when you realize it is far too late to ever pull up.)

He rang the doorbell.

The sun was just starting to go down, the shadows long and blurred all across the quiet neighborhood; too many clouds to see the stars, even when it got dark enough, and Daniel could be out there. You could go home empty-handed, he told himself, and wondered why he'd never realized the loneliness that phrase implied. But there was a shuffled behind the door, and his hands were full of all his helplessness and despair, and there was Daniel, hair endearingly a little unkempt, blinking in the strangeness of the world Jack brought with him.

"Hi," Jack said, rolling his shoulders with a fluid, careless grace. He meant to say something else-- what he didn't know-- but the words and whatever internal language that composed them curled into empty shells on his tongue. Then Daniel said, "Jack--", and the boy felt as though he'd never, ever been more stupid in his life, because his crappy, Asgard-made eyes were welling up and God, wouldn't it be friggin' embarrassing to cry. "I had to see you," he said in a rush, "I... I wish I hadn't waited this long."

For all his brilliant, analytical confusion, Daniel stepped aside, "Do you want to come in?"

"Yeah," a shift of feet, "that'd be great."

He hadn't been in Daniel's new house, but he recognized the liberal spread of Daniel's recovered possessions, as well as the occasional polished, glittering item that bore the mark of Carter or Fraiser, trying to help out. Trapped somewhere between the insanity of childhood and the hazy nonsense of being an adult, Jack wiped his feet carefully on the hall rug, allowing Daniel to usher him towards the couch.

"We didn't expect to see you again," the archeologist said suddenly, some color coming to his cheeks. "None of us did." Having nothing to say to that, Jack simply looked hatefully at his small, tender hands. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Beer?" Jack smiled hopefully, feeling an absurd amount of gratitude for Daniel's answering smile.

The older man pursed his lips, "Just a little."

("Just a little," says someone-- and it's sense memory again. Fresh, white-gold hay and his older cousin Hailey, smiling with wide, peach-pink lips. She had a long-necked bottle of real whiskey in her small, ring-festooned hands . Though he remembers that his first taste of the thick, strong liquid came when she tilted up his chin and pressed the bottle to his lips, it's Daniel's touch he feels now. Masculine fingers cupping his jaw, gentle and strange-- Daniel's blue eyes overwritten with every mystery as Jack closes his eyes and sips, 'ohhhhh...')

"I could do with that," Jack managed around his tightening throat, and there are a few moments of reprieve as Daniel fetches a bottle and a glass, setting them on the coffee table to pour.

"Jack said that you'd decided to forget all this," Daniel murmured, measuring the liquid with a little too much care.

Jack muttered without sympathy, "The Old Man's a liar," and watched his host nearly drop the bottle. Their gazes met as Daniel fumbled for purchase, neither of them breathing or looking away. "What was I supposed to do, Daniel? 'Sorry, your life is already occupied!' He practically kicked me out." It hurt Jack, to see the sympathy in Daniel's face. Always feeling too much, feeling for himself and everybody else, that was Daniel. That was where his intuition came from, from the whispers of the long dead that found at last someone to listen, someone to tell their sorrows to. And maybe that, too, was why Daniel's eyes were such a far-off, fine glass blue; he was thinking, and listening, and feeling in ways that were at once extraordinary and not remarkable at all. It was a gift, a quiet, unassuming one, and Daniel was listening to Jack now.

"Like with the robots," the older man said softly, and Jack watched him recall that odd feeling of doubleness that had plagued SG-1 for a while after that.

"Yes!" he said with relief. Then, gently, "Are your memories coming back?"

Daniel looked sheepish, "Yeah. There's still some fraying around the edges, but I know I'm still me. Even when I was Arom, I was me." Jack nodded, turning his gaze to the half-full glass of beer. He sipped at it lightly, in a way that was sort of delicate and made him want to laugh at himself.

"The Old Man's a liar," Jack repeated, knowing Daniel had heard him the first time, but still feeling compelled to pick at it, worry it it, shove it back so Daniel couldn't help but see.

"Because he told us you wanted to go to High School?" Blue eyes gazed carefully over new, silver rims.

"Because, if he wasn't a liar, you wouldn't have been here when I showed up." He downed the rest of the beer gracelessly, clarifying with, "You'd be at his place." He studied Daniel's face intently for a moment, "He didn't tell you, did he?"

"Tell me what?" Daniel frowned, more puzzled than anything else.

"That he-- that we--" Jack emphasized, "missed you."

"Of course he said--"

"No!" he couldn't help but slam his hand down, palm flat, even if he no longer had the strength for it to make any sort of dramatic impact. "He didn't tell you the truth. He's a goddamn liar. We never wanted you to leave, Daniel." Deep breath, and Jack found he was holding Daniel's now-larger hand in his own, small, smooth ones. "We're shit-- he knows it, I know it. What we did to you... It was wrong, and we paid for it! We paid for it in spades!" He hated his voice, his young vocal chords and their cracking, emotional clenching.

"I'm here now," Daniel said softly, "and I would have stayed-- if I could have." He looked away, "He... you... hurt me, I'm not going to lie about that. There were days when I just felt like I was drifting, passing through panes of glass 'cause I couldn't touch--"

"We were afraid to let you touch," Jack said, feeling oddly detached. He addressed the brightly woven rug rather than the man, concentrating solely on not coming undone. "We lied, and he's still lying because..." He stopped, and his stupid eyes were crying and he couldn't say it, not out of fear but out of... "You know," he said suddenly, "I don't want to hurt you."

Daniel's hands moved briefly with Jack's own, so that it was Daniel doing the gripping, doing the holding. "Thank you," he murmured earnestly. "What about you, though? The 'Old Man'," he quirked the tiniest of smiles, "and you-- you're separate now, if still similar."

Daniel didn't hold on when Jack pulled away, and the young man stood restlessly in the middle of the living room, feeling every one of his stolen years.

"Jesus, Daniel. I dunno!" Jack began to pace, waving his hands, weighted down by futility, "Survive. Get through high school-- works in theory, but it doesn't take into account the minutes, Daniel. I'm bored and lonely and..."

"You don't belong there." Said with a firm sort of understanding.

"Hell no. And I need---" Jack couldn't have been two feet from the couch, a foot from the coffee table, but he felt so far removed from everything, as if he could walk for endless, dragging miles and never reach Daniel or anyone else ever again. He sat back down, limp and frustrated, unable to do anything more than tip his head back and breathe. Then Daniel was beside him, at once familiar and strange. He was warm, and the sleeve of his sweater was soft against the back of Jack's neck as he drew the smaller body into a hug. Jack shifted, aware that Daniel was now bigger and stronger but somehow unable to really mind; he moved closer and hugged back. Daniel's free hand stroked his hair gently, with a sort of love that would never be expressed any way save this. Kind, affectionate, but paused breathless on the edge of manhood, passage barred. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, laid his head on Daniel's shoulder, and allowed himself the luxury of a single, heartfelt sob.

#(#)#

I woke, aware at once that I was sleeping on a couch and that I should not have been able to fit. It's like that, you know-- I just keep forgetting, and I wonder if that will ever go away. It was dark, just the white light from the moon and the dusty, comfortable glow from the kitchen down the hall; Daniel was covering me up with an afghan, bending close.

"How did you get here, anyway?" he whispered, concerned.

"Metro," I muttered, stretching as widely as I could. I looked up at him blearily. "I feel asleep on you." He nodded without moving his head. "Shit-- how cliché. I'm so embarrassed," I buried my face in a cushion, trying to swallow past all the strangeness.

"It'd okay," Daniel ruffled my hair, "It's too late for you to go back, now. You can stay here for the night."

"Thank you," I said sincerely, then punched him lightly in the arm. "Don't think you can get away with that hair thing when I'm actually awake."

A snort. "Serves you right-- I've put up with it from you for years." I kept staring up at him, hating how young I felt, hating the certainty of my flesh. He said, "Goodnight..."

"John." I sighed heavily and then offered, because I thought he might understand, "Johnny."

He's never smiled at you like that, Old Man-- but he smiled at me, 'cause he knew somehow that Pa was the only one 'side from our very first lover who ever called you or me 'Johnny'.

"Goodnight, Johnny."

"'Night, Daniel."

You're a rat bastard, Old Man-- you're an asshole, class A all the way to the top. You're a liar and a sneak; I know because I am too, because once upon a friggin' time, I was you. I have something you don't-- not what I was after, but something small and right and mine. Go ahead, keep on flirting with Carter, keep pushing Daniel away, keep trying to touch him without giving yourself away. Makes me no never mind, no matter how much you lie.

I can give something to Daniel that you won't.

I can be better than you, not make your mistakes, because-- and this is what you hate, Old Man, what crawls under your skin when youstop and think-- you'll never be able to lie to me.


End file.
